


Alla Prima

by Dragomir



Series: Blank Canvas [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Paint, D/s, Dorian really hates himself, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mild Kink, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:35:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Solas paints Dorian, it was an act of compassion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alla Prima

**Author's Note:**

> Solas' painting of Dorian inspired me.

Dorian drinks. Perhaps to forget, perhaps to numb the pain, or maybe he just wants to drink himself stupid. _Stupider than you already are, you drunken whore._ The swill the Fereldans call ale burns as he drinks it, but drinking is better than thinking. Not thinking is good. Not thinking is better than… He flinches as the Qunari lumbers by, then drinks another mouthful of ale. He will drink himself stupid and forget that Qunari and their unwanted commentary exist.

“You shouldn’t drink so much.” Irritatingly calm voice. Dorian looks over, sees Solas. Make a comment? No. Stupid. Drink more, forget. Don’t think, just keep drinking ale.

“Why do you care?” Slurring, unsteady hands. Perhaps a bit too much.

“You shouldn’t do this.” Still irritatingly calm. Gentle hand on his face, then on his chin. Tilts his face so he has to look at the not-Dalish-Dalish-something-else elf. Concern. Paternal, but…not. “This is not good for you.”

Snort. Obviously. Neither is blood magic, but look at his… Drink more. Don’t think, just drink. Hand on his mug, pulling it away from him. Growl? Get it back? Uncoordinated, can’t think enough to get it. Stupid. _Slut. Drunken slut._

“Come with me.”

Dorian struggles for a few seconds, trying to form an argument. Sees Bull looking at him. Bull leers. Shudder, step back. Look at Solas. Calm, concerned, not threatening. Nod. Follow the elf. Dorian pushes himself up and clumsily pays for his drinks. Solas’ hand on his elbow, guiding him away from the tavern. Gentle. So gentle. Dorian muffles a sob by biting the side of his hand. Gentle hand on his back now, rubbing small circles. Solas is an elf. Shouldn’t like him. Should hate him. Should hate him. Solas should hate him… He’s being too nice.

_He knows you’re a slut. You know what he wants_.

Solas’ quarters, in the rotunda. Scaffolding, creepy low lighting, but it’s warm. Dorian sighs as the door shuts behind him. Painting supplies everywhere. Comfortable pair of chairs near a fireplace, books stacked neatly between them. Cozy. Comforting. Home? (Why is he thinking of home? Home isn’t cozy like this. Home is austere, a fashion statement. Home is… Home is not a comfort. Home is blood magic and disappointment and _pain_.)

“Drink this.”

Cup pressed into his hands. Dorian cradles the fragile porcelain in his hands and sips as he’s pushed into a chair. Still gentle. Why is Solas so gentle? Shouldn’t be gentle. Should hate him. Want to conq…Bull conquers. Solas is disdainful. Why is Solas so concerned?

“How do you feel now?” Concern. Why is Solas being so nice to him?

Blink. Look at the elf. Focus… Narrow eyes, take another sip. Obey orders. Just drink the tea. Be a good boy… Why is he thinking like this?

“…Sober,” Dorian mumbles. Not a lie. Head doesn’t hurt anymore. Tea. Drink the tea, finish. Leave. Solas is concerned. Kneel. Hand on his chin, gentle and paternal. Not possessive. Eyes narrowed. Inspection. (Like father is angry with him again. Can’t stand chastisement. _Want. Want. Please. Love me. Be proud. I am not a failure…)_

Gentle hand on his free hand. Squeeze. Comforting, not controlling. Safe. Safety. A friend? (Too much to hope for. He’s an evil Tevinter mage. No friends. No safety. He is worthless to them.) Gentle hand on his face. Cup refilled. Drink. Finish the cup again. Obey orders. Don’t be a nuisance. Be a good boy. Follow orders. _You can do that much, you stupid drunk whore._

“Do you paint?” Words not slurring. Sober. Sobriety hurts. Drink, don’t think. Solas smiles. Nod. Look of approval. Craving. Crave. Dorian _wants_. “What do you paint?” Painting is beneath the alti. Painting is for laetan, second children (no second children, ever, no siblings to share secrets with, _stupid boy stop asking for a sibling we’re not_ Soporati), and soporati. Solas. Solas paints.

“Canvas. The walls.” Smile. Look of approval. ( _Please, let that smile be for_ me _._ ) Hand on his chin, tilting his head up. “Sometimes people.”

Mind grinds to a halt. Dorian licks his lips. Dry lips. Completely sober. Painting people? Curiosity.

“…How?”

Solas regards him. Not disdainful. Curious. Appraising, but not cruel. Approval? ( _Please approve of me._ ) Head tilts to side, thinking. Slow blink, then approving nod.

“Color?”

“Blue.” Automatic response. Blue is a good color. Safety. Warmth. The sea. The ocean at Quarinus and Asariel. His childhood. His favorite color. Blue.

“Color?”

Why another one? Frown. Think about it. Blue is a good color. Panic. Red. Red claws at him. Dragging down. Choking. Stifling. Blood red, clawing at him, dragging him down. Red like blood.

“ _Red_.”

Hand in his hair. Gentle. Nails scrape across his scalp, petting. Like he’s a dog. Demeaning. _Slut_. It’s not demeaning. Gentle. Gentleness. It’s praise. Dorian relaxes. Blue. He likes blue. Blunt nails scrape along his scalp, rub behind his ear. Praise. Comforting. This is not demeaning. He is safe. Solas is not disdainful. Comforting, approving, praising him. For what?

“Do you want to be a canvas, for tonight?” Quiet, distant. Not demanding or terrorizing. Permission. He does not have to give it. Permission granted, not demanded. Solas is not disdainful or frightening now. He is gentle. _Want_. Dorian shudders and leans into Solas’ hand.

“ _Please…_ ” Shy, suddenly. Breath catching in his throat. What is he agreeing to? Solas brushes a few strands of hair out of his face. Automatic gesture. A parent to a child. Solas tugs him upright. Dorian stands there, feeling like he is small. He is small. Solas makes him feel small. Not a terrorized child. He is not weak. Protection. Solas protects the small. Safety. Protected. _Wanted? Am I wanted?_

“Rules.” Firm, but not demanding. A master to an apprentice. “This stops if you say red. I will not question you if you wish to stop.” Dorian nods. Red will stop this. “You will obey orders. Every order. Without question. Do you agree?”

He can stop this if he wants. Say red and it will stop. But…

“Yes.”

“Good boy.” Dorian’s eyes slide shut at the praise. Good boy. Approval. He wants more. _Whore. Go to Bull. Let him fuck you. Stupid slut._ Hand on his elbow. “You may not move until I move you. You will keep your eyes closed until I say you may open them. I will not allow anyone else into this room while you are in my power, unless you state that you wish them to join.”

Relief. Safety. He is in control here. Solas gives the orders, but Dorian has the power. He is safe. Submit. Submission. Power. _Approval_.

“Yes ser.” Breathy, shy, _please approve_. Hand on his arm, leading him to an alcove.

“Undress. There is a crate next to your left foot, the top is near your knee. A bucket of water is next to your right foot. The top is near the middle of your calf, and there is a washcloth on the far side of the rim. When you have disrobed, wash. I don’t work with filthy canvases.”

Firm orders. Not insulting. Not degrading. Statement of fact. Rustling of cloth. A curtain being drawn? Don’t open your eyes. Dorian undresses. He does not feel pressured into this. This is safe. It is not demeaning. Rules. There are rules. Protection. Safety. A shield. He will not be hurt here. ( _Please, don’t let this be a cruel joke._ ) Folded robes, folded breeches, smalls on top of the pile, socks tucked into his boots. Hesitation. Rings removed, placed on his robes. He won’t need the defenses. Kneel, feel for the bucket of water.

Scent of flowers. Slickness of oil. The water is warm. Dip the rag into the water, wash gently. Don’t shiver. Calming. Repeat the act. Calm. He is safe. There are _rules_. Orders. Obey the orders, don’t be a brat. Wash gently. Cloth dragged over his soft cock. Sensual. Not arousing. Organ limp between his legs. ( _Please, Maker, don’t let this be a cruel joke._ ) Finish washing. Rag back in bucket. Stand up. Walk past curtain.

_Shame_. Hand covers his cock. Shield yourself. _Slut_. _Stupid drunken whore._ Turn away, hide your shame. Dorian whimpers.

“Color?” Concern. Gentle. Paternal concern. “Dorian, you don’t-” He is the one in control.

“Blue.” Confidence. Don’t hide. Dorian pulls his hand away from his cock. Eyes shut. Open them and this will end. Don’t open them. Solas won’t… Not shameful. This is not shameful. _Slut. Go back to the tavern, let the Bull fuck you._

Gentle hands leading him. “Careful.” Feel forward. There’s a stair. Two stairs – shallow ones. Place feet carefully. Step up. Step up. Stop. Hand on his shoulder, pushing gently. Kneel. Shudder. Fear. _Whore. Drunk. Slut. Should let the Bull fuck you_.

“You are safe here.” Hand over his eyes, one over his heart. “There is no one in this room save for us. You are safe here. Calm.” Hand over his heart rubbing soothing circles. Pulse thumps erratically. Slows. Slow. Slow. _Slow_. Calm bleeds into his veins. Pulse slows, not racing. He is safe. “Color?”

“Blue.” More confidence. Pulse slow, gentle, easy.

“You are safe here.” Hands leave. Dorian keeps breathing. Slow, measure them. Measure your breath. No fear. “Be calm, Dorian. You are safe here.” Shudder. Something wet on his collarbone. Paint. He is being painted. Remain calm. Statue. Canvas. Calm bleeds in, thoughts bleed out.

Hand guiding his body. Don’t resist. ( _I would_ conquer _you._ ) This is not conquest. Safety. Pushed to rest on one hip. Bracing hand. Lean weight on arm. Sturdy. Hand between his legs. Hiding his cock. Shield. Safety. Not humiliating. Not shameful. Bristles trailing down his spine. Abstract swirls over warm flesh. Cold paint, warm skin. Contrast. Contrasting feelings. He is safe. Solas will protect him in here. Solas is protective of his work.

Thick brush. Think brush. Sponge textures paint. Shuffling feet. Don’t think. Let Solas work. _You are a canvas, not a person._ Paintbrush on his face. Softer bristles. Stop at his hairline. Paint the shaved parts. Damp cloth on his eyelids. Removing kohl and shadow. Dry cloth patting away moisture. Gentleness. An artist at work. Safety and comfort. Paintbrush on his face. Softer bristles.

Solas hums while he works. Dorian relaxes under the ministrations. He does not move. He is a statue. Humming. The tune is comforting. Dorian thinks of his childhood nanny. She had been kind to him. Gentle. Affectionate. She hummed when she worked. Relax further.

Feeling of bonelessness and disconnection. He is safe here. His mind isn’t yelling at him. Not a slut. Not a whore. He doesn’t need to take what he can get from the Bull. He is approved of _here_.

Hand on the back of his head. Tilting down. Contemplation. Paint on the back of his neck. Into the short bristles of his close-cut hair. Don’t shiver. Not allowed to move. Obey the rules. Be a good boy. Hand on his shoulder. Thumb rubbing a knot out of the tense line between his shoulder and neck. Relax. You are safe. You are loved. No fear. Protection. Safety.

Painting again. Dorian stays still. Thoughts bleed away. Darkness. He is safe. He is warm. Solas paints. Canvas. Statue. He belongs to Solas for now. Red will stop this. Blue if he is alright. Don’t speak. A painting doesn’t speak. Solas needs to work.

Brush. Stop. Hand gentle along the shell of his ear. Gentle scrape along his scalp with blunt nails. Humming stops.

“Open your eyes.”

Dorian looks.

He is not himself. He sits on a pedestal in the center of the rotunda, but that is not him in the mirror. He is not him. The creature in the mirror glows. A wisp. A spirit of light. The paint glimmers. He is a spirit of fire. Orange and green wisps of fire curl over him. He flickers, but doesn’t burn. A spirit of fire, captured and held by his word alone. His eyes gleam in the light of a torch. He burns brightly in the dark room. Eyes flick up to meet Solas’ gaze. A spirit of fire, trapped in the mortal realm. _Desired_.

Solas smiles at him.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs29/f/2008/082/5/2/Phoenix_Blacklight_Bodypaint_2_by_HoiHoiSan.jpg) is the inspiration for Dorian's paint in _Alla Prima_.


End file.
